The Trapeze
by Karshtakavaar
Summary: Contains a pre-Robin Dick, trapeze and Bruce attempting parenthood. Fluff.


So this has been sitting around on my hard drive for a while now. I'm not quite sure if it's exactly finished but I'm at a bit of a loss to know how to join up all the bits. Anyway I thought I'd post it on the off chance that the bits make enough sense by themselves.

I'm not making any money from this, all the characters etc. belong to DC Comics, I'd just like to borrow them for a while.

* * *

**The Trapeze**

I really hope I'm right about this, because if I'm wrong I could be about to undo a good month or so's therapy with Leslie. I reach out my hand, testing the tension in the rope before me. I don't know if the boy's parents used one of these but I'm absolutely not having him up there without one, especially given everything that happened. I hope this is the correct thing to do.

I haven't been back to a cinema since my parents died. There's no pleasure in it for me now just bad memories. The only time that's ever been an issue was with the odd girlfriend when I was younger. Even then all I had to do was stare evenly at her, explain that, no, I don't like the cinema, why don't we go somewhere else, and wait for her to join the dots. It's about the only benefit I can see to having everyone in Gotham know how you came to be an orphan.

Dick is different, though, at least that's what I'm banking on. I've seen him turn cartwheels on the banister at the top of the grand staircase when he thinks we're not looking. He has an eighteen month old child's awareness of the danger a four storey fall onto a marble floor poses. The first week he was here he somersaulted off the chandeliers. It's a good job there's not too much weight to the boy because he could have brought the ceiling down. He certainly managed to spook Alfred with that one, which is quite a feat.

* * *

I never intended to watch but I find the installation curiously fascinating. Before I know it I'm talking to the foreman. So much terminology.

"It's for the kid, right?" he says. "Poor little guy."

* * *

Alfred brings to him into the room. I watch his face carefully, nervously. His eyes go wide as saucers, roving over the equipment, taking in every detail. He looks at me then breaks out into the biggest smile I have ever seen.

"Wow! Can we keep it?"

Despite myself I find myself smiling both in relief and at his enthusiasm.

"Yes. It's for you."

"Wow!"

Suddenly he's scooting round the room, checking the ropes on the safety net.

"Perhaps you would like to show Master Bruce what you can do," Alfred suggests.

"Yeah." Suddenly he looks sad. "I can't show you everything, though. There's nobody to catch me." His eyes are beginning to fill with unshed tears. "It's better with two."

I wonder if having both trapeze bars put in wasn't a mistake on my part. Now every time the boy is in here he'll see an empty bar where his father ought to be. Stupid. I should have seen that coming.

"I went to the circus quite a bit when I was little," Alfred is saying. "I seem to remember some of the trapeze artists doing tricks that didn't need two people."

Dick sniffs then wipes his nose and eyes on his sleeve.

"Aerialists," he says in a shaky voice.

Alfred produces a large white hankie from an inside pocket and hands to the small boy. By the time Dick has blown his nose properly his voice has steadied again.

"We're called aerialists."

"Oh, I see. I shall remember that."

The boy is thinking, brow furrowed in concentration.

"There are lots of routines you can do on a static trapeze," he says. "My Mom knew loads."

Then he grins.

"Yeah, I think I know one for the flying trapeze. I used to do this when I was little, whilst Dad was teaching me "

And then we're standing there, our heads thrown backwards, watching Dick in his element. It's clearly a routine he's worked through many times before because all the timings are pitch perfect. As he moves between positions he calls out the names of the tricks. Once again I'm amazed by the little guy.

"He must have put on quite a performance," Alfred murmurs beside me.

"He was astonishing, Alfred. They all were."

I sense rather than see Alfred's surprise at what, for me, is quite effusive praise I suppose. Above our heads Dick lets go of the trapeze, turns two graceful somersaults and lands in the centre of the safety net.

"Very impressive, Master Richard."

Dick wrinkles his nose.

"That's the easy stuff."

He crawls to the side of the net, grasps the edge and rolls forward in a tight tuck. As he rolls he brings his legs down under him and there he is, standing in front of us.

"If you don't mind watching me land in the net I can show you something more difficult."

This is the most animated I've seen Dick since he came to the Manor. There's a confidence in his body posture, a light in his eyes.

"All right," I say.

He's back up the ladder like a monkey.

"He'll sleep well tonight," Alfred observes.

_If the nightmares don't get him_, I think.

* * *

"My apologies, Master Bruce, Master Richard, I must attend to supper."

Dick pauses, swinging backwards and forwards upside down, hanging from the trapeze by his knees. There's a look of puzzlement on his face.

"He's going to cook dinner," I clarify as Alfred leaves.

"Oh. Good, I'm starving."

He flips himself the right way up so that he's sitting on the trapeze like a swing.

"Wanna see me do a sitting suicide? It's a dismount," he adds quickly when he sees the look on my face. "It's safe. I've done it loads of times."

"OK," I say.

He waits till the trapeze is on the apex of its swing, just about to pendulum back, then falls forward, body rigid, arms spread, flipping over to land on his back in the centre of the net. I applaud and his face glows with pleasure.

"It's really a catcher's trick," he explains. "I'm too little to catch but my Dad's going to teach me how when I'm older." The words are barely out of his mouth when he realises what he's said. "My Dad was going to teach me to catch," he corrects sadly.

"Maybe we can find someone else to teach you when the time comes," I say.

He nods but I can see from his slumped shoulders, by the way he doesn't quite meet my eyes that it wouldn't be the same. For all my money and political influence I'm powerless to give this boy what he really wants, his family back.

* * *

He crawls into the centre of the safety net and lies on his back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

"Wow!"

"You like it, then?"

"It's the absolute best."

Sometimes I wonder if he's braver than I ever could be. I haven't been back to the cinema since my parents' death but he's flown. Just clambered right up those ladders and showed us why he's the youngest aerialist to ever make a quadruple somersault.


End file.
